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If there is any kind of cultural reduction encouraged by Ok Cupid’s template, it’s a kind of self-deprecating high-low-brow aesthetic that’s prevalent in Brooklyn.

Imagine , but about boys — the same neurotically weird specificity, but without nearly all of the savagery.

It may have been the whiskey, but at a certain point he hit the praise button. And they’re stuck on terms and phrases like “self-summary” and “love of his life”. He came back inside and caught me, hovering, an inch away from sitting down. He was living in the East Village, biding his time, knowing that he wasn’t biding it for a partner or child, a better novel (he’d written three), family, or any other teleology we measure our lives by. I recognised the guilt in thinking that home was not enough. This all seemed ridiculous, and yet it never happened to me.

He thought me better looking than my profile photo. I told him it was my first online date, and he was attentive and aggressively flirty in all the ways I had been dimly afraid of — proposing he accompany me to my friend’s lingerie business in Hudson that weekend, suggesting I stop by his place after a masked ball that weekend — but he had also been willing to talk about almost everything. I keep on wanting to write that his eyes were kind, but that’s not it at all. Outside, he watched me unfold my folding bicycle, and asked for a kiss. A proviso: if you’ve dated online before, then you know this kind of thing forwards and backwards and three times over by now. If I begin here, at such a basic, beginner’s level, then how far can I really get? He worked as a copywriter in advertising, was from Ireland, had lived here for decades, still had the accent. He had a wit on him; he was quick, quicker than I, quicker than nearly everyone he knew. A couple of weeks later, date number three and I went on a second date to .